


Operation Chicago

by GiraffeRobot3000 (orphan_account)



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 2000s, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, F/M, Gen, Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jazz - Freeform, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Themes, Winter Stop Stalking Me, big band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-08-20 12:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GiraffeRobot3000
Summary: When MacArthur High's jazz band gets chosen as one of the few high schools in the country to go up to Chicago for the Midwest Jazz Clinic (which Hawkeye has been told is a big deal, despite never hearing about it before) the big band's new director puts a lot of pressure on the kid's shoulders.





	1. When High Brass Meets Low Brass

**Author's Note:**

> yo
> 
> so i've decided to say screw it to all the other fan fictions i have going, and start a new one because why not
> 
> everything i write about is based off of a personal experience with me and my middle school jazz getting into Midwest this year
> 
> this is set in MacArthur High school, San Antonio, Texas (actual place btw)
> 
> please note i am merely a miserable piano player, and i can only play said instrument and harmonica, so i know nothing about other instruments or how to play them
> 
> please note i have no idea how high school jazz bands work, as i'm still in middle school.
> 
> it isn't uncommon for people to get jazz nicknames, even in high schools- my own is 'Falcon'
> 
> i have not yet gone to Chicago, so the said chapter will come later, after i have gone so i can write about it.
> 
> almost all the places i write about will be real actual places you can find in San Antonio
> 
> i haven't finished watching all of MASH yet, but i know enough to write this story
> 
> Hawkeye's Bi, Klinger is Genderfluid, and Radar and Mulcahy are Asexuals
> 
> Hawkeye, B. J. and Margaret are all Juniors, Peg and Charles are Seniors, Mulcahy and Klinger are Sophomores, Radar is a Freshman, and Potter is the band director.
> 
> Mulcahy and Klinger go by Francis and Max.
> 
> Henry Blake was the old director before Potter, and Burns and Trapper have changed schools
> 
> Klinger wears dresses still, and doesn't really care what you call him.
> 
> uhh that's about it for things you need to know for the story
> 
> good luck down there

When Hawkeye walked into the first day of band camp, he expected to be met by his old friend since middle school, Trapper, as he shoved his sax into the instrument locker next to him.

Instead, where Trapper and a saxophone should be, there was another kid, and he was holding a trombone.

Hawkeye froze, and stared at him. Trapper had that locker for the past two years they've been holding up this Jazz band, and he wasn't about to let some trombone player shove his mouthpiece where it doesn't belong.

He whipped around, and looked for Henry's office.

"Henry, we've got a problem, and I demand to have an explanati-"

Hawkeye froze mid tantrum as he saw the much shorter, much grumpier, much different director standing behind _Henry's _desk.

"Who in the name of Patton is Henry?" The old man growled at the Junior.

"Who are _you _and what happened to my pushover father-figure?" Hawkeye stated.

"I'm the new director to this place- Dr. Blake left," he wove around his desk to look up at Hawkeye.

"I'm your new director, Dr. Potter," he said.

"There's a lot of people doctoring for jazz I guess," Hawkeye said, holding out his hand.

"I'm Hawkeye," 

The doctor gave him an expression of confusion.

"I don't remember any 'Hawkeye's' on my roster list," he replied.

"You'll soon find a lot of us go by nicknames," he said with a smirk.

"Hawkeye it is then," the jazz director took the outstretched hand, shaking it.

"Now, what did you need?" He said with a smile, much more friendlier than how he had reacted when Hawkeye has barged inside.

"On your roster list, did you happen to find any John McIntyre's?" Hawkeye said, expression shifting to a little nervous. He wasn't sure how he was going to get through this Jazz year without his best friend.

"I'm afraid not, son, the only John here was the piano boy,"

Hawkeye felt himself fade internally, but his face only fell a little compared to how he felt inside.

"Was he a friend of yours?" The doctor seemed to have caught wind of his negative feelings.

"We were inseparable," Hawkeye huffed "Now he's gone,"

Dr. Potter let out a sigh and rested his hand on Hawkeye's shoulder.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said "But maybe you'll make new friends,"

A crack of a smile slithered up his face. "Let's go meet the rest of what I've got to work with," the hand left his shoulder, and the two exited.

In the band hall, a clutter of about 12 students were adjusting mouth pieces and playing Hot Cross Buns.

"Silence!" The doctor cried, going up to the front of the classroom, while Hawkeye went to the back with the trumpets.

"I'm the new director here, Dr. Potter. I respect to be respected by all you respectable fellows up there, because we've got a long 7 months piled up for us to get ready to go to Chicago,"

The drummer boy dropped a snare, and it rang through the air.

"What in St. Louis was that about!" The short tempered director yelled at the anxious looking Freshmen.

"S-sorry, sir! M-my finger slipped, honest" he stuttered back, reaching down to pick up the cymbal. Hawkeye stifled a laugh.

"Well, don't eat so many chicken legs before coming to band practice next time!" 

"Yes sir," the kid said timidly, looking down as he affixed it to the drum set.

"Now, as I was saying, I would like to know all your names, or nicknames if you have them, and what instruments you play. I want to know if we have any doubles to use in Chicago,"

The group went through specifics, starting with the rhythm section. The piano player was a sophomore named Francis, and he could play xylophone and harmonica, as well as the piano. 

"A triple! Although I'm not sure what we can do with, ah, harmonica, xylophone is good to know!" Dr. Potter said with open glee.

The drummer was a Freshman names Walter, but he said he went by 'Radar'

"Why 'Radar?'" He questioned.

"Uh.. Sometimes I can tell when some things gonna happen, before it happens," he said, a little shy still.

"Could you tell you were going to drop that cymbal?" He replied, his words leaving a little menace and annoyance behind it.

"U-Uh, it doesn't always work, sir," Radar fiddled with the drum sticks in his hand.

"You play anything to else?" He said with a sigh, deciding to just let the argument go.

"Well, I play it terribly, but I know how to play bugle," he said with a smile hinting at his corners.

The doctor just moved on.

The base player was a Senior named Igor, who played base and cello, and the guitar player was a Sophomore named Max, who could only do guitar.

He was also dressed in a dress.

"What's with the fabrics, boy?" Potter paused at boy. _Was he a boy?_

"What, I can't wear something comfortable for once without getting pestered about it? Just what I'd expect from an army guru like you," Max spat, glancing up at the old Korean War pictures scattered around the room.

Potter moved on again.

In the Brass, no one of interest stuck out of the saxophones, except good old 'Hot Lips' Houlihan.

"I play the saxophone, as well as clarinet, some basic rhythm section instruments, piano, a little guitar, and violin," She said, her nose held forward with pride.

The old Colonel's eyes widened with surprise.

"Wow, that's an impressive regiment," he cracked a smile. "Even though we'll never use any of them, and you're not leaving the saxophone to play bongos," 

she huffed a little, but sat back.

In the trombones section, two people stood out. An old Senior fart named Charles, who played the french horn, has an odd accent Hawkeye couldn't place, but was determined to by the end of the year. He was new here- wasn't in the jazz band last year like mostly everyone else was.

The second trombone that stood out was the guy that seemed to replace Trapper. 

"The name's B.J. Hunnicut, but, please, call me The Trombone Player, capitalised and trademarked, don't steal that," he said, with a wise-guy grin the could have pulled out Hawkeye's heart, if he weren't so mad at him for replacing his best friend.

"Unfortunately, I can only play the trombone, but if you hand me a recorder, it's like riding a bike, you can't forget," laugher passed around the class, and Potter smiled.

Next up was trumpets, and Hawkeye eventually went.

"Yo, I'm Benjamin Franklin Pierce, and I invented electricity. Need I say more?" Someone snickered. "You can call me Hawkeye, though, saves a lot of trouble, shortening it like that. I only play Matilda, here, and wherever she goes I go."

He paused for a moment.

"Unless your counting kazoo," more laughter. 

When Hawkeye sat down, and the next person stood up next to him, his eyes interlocked with B. J.'s for a moment, and he knew.

_It's not his fault Trapper left._

The kid smirked at him, and Hawkeye grinned back with a wave.


	2. When Low Brass Meets Woodwinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo
> 
> thank you everyone who left a kind comment or a kudos last episode,  
i greatly appreciate it.

After that day's practice, when B.J. was shoving his trombone into the small locker he was given that could barely hold a flute, the wise cracking kid that played trumpet came up to him, and started to shove his brass into where woodwind should go.

"Hey, you're the lead trumpet, right?" B.J. asked, barely taking his eyes away from the struggling compartment.

"You sounded impressive,"

"Well, that's why I'm going to Chicago, and Hot Lips over there isn't," he remarked, jerking his head towards the girl who played too many instruments.

"It's a shame, I heard she came from a family of musicians. But now all she can play is Twinkle Twinkle,"

"I'm sure she would call it something more pompous, like Mozart Melody," B. J. retorted with a sly grin.

The locker slammed shut, and Hawkeye (that was his name, right?) locked the compartment with a lock.

"See ya around, big shot," he called after him as he left the back exit from the school. He watched him for a moment, watched as he went up to the drummer boy and start a conversation that ended with his arm slung around the shorter boy's shoulders.

After he finally shoved the trombone into his locker, B.J. waited for a while around the school. He was technically old enough to drive, but, well, he didn't exactly have a car yet. So, he had to wait for his mom to get off work, etcetera.

As he waited, he watched the piano player step outside, tucking sheet music into a folder as he went and sat on a bench, presumably waiting for an adult, as well. Only he probably wasn't old enough to drive.

"Hey," B. J. slid into the spot next to him, with a kind smile. He returned it, with a 'hello' back.

"You sounded very good today," he chided, still smiling at B.J. 

"I would say the same, if I could have heard you," he remarked.

"Yes, well, piano isn't the loudest instrument compared to you brass players, even with an amp,"

"You just gotta hammer the ivory then, Frank! Was that your name?"

He chuckled. "Ah, no, it's Francis, but, I have been given the nickname 'Red' by some of my closer friends," Francis gave him a look, like asking _ what about you?_

"I'm B.J." He held out his hand for him to shake, which Francis took with joy.

"What's the B.J. stand for?" He quarried.

"Anything you want it to, " he said with a grin.

"What about the 'Red' thing?" 

He took of his off-white hat, pointing to the golden-red hair resting underneath.

They laughed, until a car pulled up- his mom's car.

"Oop- gotta go," he got up, and waved back at him as he backwalked to Shotgun.

He got into the car, and they sped off. He risked one more glimpse back, and found that Francis was still sitting there, waiting for his parents.

He wondered how long he was going to have to wait before someone picked him up.

"All right, everybody listen up! I want to talk to the saxophones about the possibility of you all learning doubles," Dr. Potter yelled out to the band in front of him.

"The lead saxophone, Margaret, has already learned Clarinet, so I'm leaving it up to the rest of you ladies to learn the flute!" He said with ecstasy, gesturing at the rest of the saxophones, a group of girls. B.J. couldn't remember exactly their names- Kellye? Gwen? He couldn't remember the last two. In all honesty, he didn't really care that much.

The four girls groaned.

"But sir, my lips can't blow down like that!" One of them complained.

"Well, they'd better learn how to, or we're not going anywhere in Chicago!" He cried back.

"What even is this 'Chicago' stuff you seem to care so much about?" Another faceless voice cried.

"It's a very prestigious thing, where a group of jazz legends select certain schools and bands across the country to compete in a tournament to find out who is the best in the country, and it is a big deal to even get in, so I want all of you puckering up those raspberry blowers soon, or we're having another Texas winter without snow!"

Dr. Potter had to take a breather after that for a moment. He seemed to tend to explode.

"Now, would everyone _please _turn to Take The A Train, and _quit your complaining?_"

The second day of summer Jazz practice continued on without a hitch.


	3. When Low Brass Is Acting Like High Brass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha guess what  
school's back  
and you know what that means  
time to mess up my already messed up updating mess of a schedule this mess of a year.
> 
> just trying to get into character as Radar-

When Radar left from the second day of summer practice, he didn't expect to be stopped by another kid on his way into the band hall, yanked into the bathroom, and closed into a corner.

But here he was, staring up at one of the trombones.

In all honesty, he didn't know his name. Nobody did, except for him and Dr. Potter. Apparently the kid had confronted the director before band camp to tell him not to call him that- he even yelled it out in class, saying he wanted to go by his last name- Flagg.

("With two g's," he said. "Of course, wouldn't want to hang you up on the flag pole," The trumpeter apparently named Hawkeye replied.)

"Listen, kiddo, I don't want you making any more slip-ups this year, ya hear me?" 

His voice pulled him out of his train of thoughts, able to not crack a grin as the remark replayed in his head.

"U-uh, yes, um..." Radar stopped when he realised he was about to say 'Sir.'

"Sir is fine, four-eyes," He corrected.

"OK, sir," He tried to look everywhere but Flagg's eyes. There wasn't much to look at in a bathroom.

"If you do mess up again, I can pull you right out of this man's game, and place you with the baby leagues, you got that?" He poked a finger onto his chest, causing him to jump and look up at him.

"U-uh, r-roger wilco, sir, " He blurted.

"Roger wilco? You freak. Get outta here, shorty," He stepped back, still keeping his chill demeanor even in his insults.

Radar took the opportunity and scrambled out of the bathroom, just to be grabbed by another kid, and dragged into an empty corridor.

"Now listen up, you freak of nature, I don't want you pulling another one of your little _stunts _in there. I know you dropped that cymbal on purpose!" She spat into his face.

_Oh, great job, Radar, now everyone hates you._

"I'm sorry.., " Again, Radar almost called her Sir. 

_I mean m'am._

"M'am is fine, you creep,"

_Jeez, you drop one cymbal and soon your a freak and a creep all at the same time._

"U-uh, yes m'am," he sighed, looking away bored.

"Something wrong, drummer boy?" She said menacingly.

_Now she's using this old stunt- you don't even realise how much control I have over the band! So what if you're lead sax, do you keep everyone in time, decide how fast the music is, or how you play your solo?_

"Uh, no m'am," He looked up at her again.

"I thought so. Now, go home and practice for once,"

She have him a shove in the wrong direction, but Radar wasn't about to turn around, so he went a few steps then took a U-turn when he knew she had left.

Once he got back into the main band hall again, almost to freedom of the outdoors, this time two kids grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side, into another empty band room.

"Listen, I'm sorry I dropped the cymbal, sirs, can I got home now?" He finally cried out to the kid dragging his arm.

"Sirs? What is this, Vietnam?"

Radar took a closer look at the two kids- it was Hawkeye and that other kid who was Trombone.

"Oh, uh, hi.. Hawkeye," He said, shifting on his feet a little.

He didn't really know the other kid, he just knew he was really tall, taller than the other two who had yelled at him, and quite possibly mean like them, so he just didn't even look in their direction.

"I wanted you to meet my good friend here, B.J. Hunnicut, the finest Trombone player south of Rio Grande," He said, waving out to the guy next to him.

"Heya, shorty," He gave a friendly wave and a smirk, but Radar still flinched at the nickname he heard too often.

"H-hi.." That was all he could really manage, or really wanted to say in general.

"What was the deal about that 'sir' and 'cymbal' stuff?" Hawkeye asked, stepping back a little as if sensing the amount of anxiety radiating off of him at this moment.

"W-well.. Some other.. Kids were telling me to not to drop it again.. And, I dunno, they wanted me to call them 'sir' and 'm'am', so... I-I guess I'm just..," He trailed off.

_ Well put. They know exactly what's happening, no confusion._

"What? Who? I can sick a boxer friend of mine on them, " B.J. offered.

"O-oh, no, really, it's fine, they just want what's best, and, well, I guess they really care about this Chicago stuff," Radar said, trying to come off as collected.

_(He was failing)_

"C'mon, if it's no big deal you can tell us," Hawkeye said, but Radar knew what he really wanted to know and why.

"I don't want you guys goin' after anyone," Radar said, furrowing his brow.

There was a pause that was a little to awkward for Radar's liking.

"I-I gotta get goin' to the library now," Radar started to step back away from them, but Hawkeye grabbed his arm, and he froze on the spot.

"Radar," Hawkeye said, carefully.

Radar started back with the deer-in-headlights look you could get from him if you caught him off guard.

Hawkeye let him go.

"No calling us sirs, it's our striving goal to be as improper as possible," Hawkeye said, a final glance of _we want to help _passing his features.

Radar just nodded vaguely, and pushed through the double doors.

When he had walked far enough from the school, he broke into a sprint the rest of the way to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha when you base a chapter after personal experiences


	4. When Low Brass And High Brass Turn Out To Be The Same Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo 
> 
> i kinda hated the ending to the last chapter, so if you're coming to here without rereading it, i suggest you do, so.
> 
> i didn't really want this to turn angsty, so i kinda forced some of it back into my throat for another day like vomit.
> 
> side note, we did outfit fittings today, and i get to wear men's clothes instead of a dress! now i don't have to worry about dysphoria on stage, 'cause i'm too far away for anyone to distinguish up on stage.
> 
> so yeah.
> 
> also, kinda think one of my band mates is transphobic, so crap.
> 
> one more thing about this story- 
> 
> it's set around the 2000's-ish? i'm thinking 2000 straight, just to not clash with any famous dates in history and such. i want a modern setting but not too modern, ya know?
> 
> one thing i should probably add- some songs i will talk about might come out later than 2000, like, for instance, Big Mouth came out in April this year, but i'm working off the sheets i'm given and going through, since these are the things someone actually in Midwest are doing.

"Now, I know some of you are thinking 'This is just summer band practice, we have until December!' Well, buckle up, all of you who think that, because I've got some news for you! I'm going to pass around two new songs we're playing at Midwest, to give you a taste of what it's like!" 

The drummer boy, who seemed to double as a student aid, stumbled around heavy equipment trying to hand out the different sheets to the different instruments. When Charles finally got his, it was crumpled in the corners. It took all he had to not make a complaint to the hectic kid running around.

"Hey, watch it, that thing costs more than your life!" The base player cried when he almost tripped over his Cello.

"Sorry, Igor- here, Big Mouth andd.."

He shuffled through his papers.

"What'll I Do," He gave the papers to Igor, who set it up on his stand.

Charles glanced at his music- _dear Lord, what is that?_

The music was slow and catchy and rhythmic, but was still very very hard.

_What does T.O.P. funk even mean?_

Apparently, Charles wasn't the only one to be confused by the pieces.

"Now, I know this looks like a hard piece to handle, but I'm telling ya, once you get it down pat, it'll be as smooth as a baby's bottom! Some of you are probably wondering about the T.O.P. up at the T-O-P. That's short for Tower Of Power, a jazz band that was so off key they had their own version of jazz created! Here, let's take a gander at what this will sound like,"

The director pulled up the video online, and played it on the T.V. in the corner.

The song was cool and catchy, and the solos were nice and well put together.

_They are professionals, though._

Charles looked over the band, noting the guitar and piano player- the ones with the solos.

_They'd better be good._

The next song, Charles made sure to finger along to- it was much easier than the other song. Swung, and more chill in general. It wasn't hard to pick up, as the rhythm came naturally as the song went on.

"Alright, let's go over these! We've got about an hour left, and I plan on ironing out the sphinx in these!" Dr. Potter announced as the band got back into place.

For the first half of the song, everything was running... Well, alright. Nothing special yet, but it was better than when the solo first ended, and everyone went down from there. 

Timing was lost, some people held, some people tongued, and it was a mess. Luckily, the picky band director was there to set things straight.

"Alright, Trombones, give me what you've got on 48 to 50," 

As second trombone of four, he had the grueling task of the lower notes, as the frizzy-haired kid next to him sang out the melody.

He tripped over himself scrambling for notes as the timing fell off.

"Charles, what are your voicing?" 

Charles froze a little at the sudden call out, but nonetheless said out his _do's _and _dot's _and _dit's_.

"Alright, now try tonguing the E, and hold the B-flat this time," 

Charles sighed, but played correctly the next turn.

Charles watched as the director picked on the saxophones next, some girl named Ginger or something- he wasn't exactly interested in making any friends here.

The Trombone next to him elbowed him in the ribs.

"Hey, Chucky- can I call you that?" He murmured to him as the saxes tried again, to no apparent avail.

Charles was about to say _no, you heathen, go push it up your mouthpiece,_ but was cut off by him again.

"You new in town, like me? You certainly sound like it,"

Charles glowered at the young man next to him.

"If you must know, I am from Boston," he replied snarkily.

"Ah, these summers must be pretty hot, huh? We're all the way across the country,"

"Yes, it was a very hot first week of unpacking, now will you leave me alone?"

"I'm from California myself, Mill Valley, nice place. Not that much cooler than here,"

Charles shuddered.

_I'm talking to a man from California?_

"Yes, interesting, despite no one caring, now would you _please _mind your own business?" Charles finally groveled.

"Charles, what are you and B.J. bickering about up there?" Dr. Potter's voice suddenly interjected.

Charles shot _B.J. _an _I warned you _look, before replying.

"Ah, you see, B.J. here wanted to know what a certain rest was, and so I was kind enough to show him,"

"You don't know all your rests, boy?"

"There's more rests here than in preschool," he replied with a wise-guy grin.

He gave them a final stink-eye before moving to trumpets.

The frizzy-haired kid leaned in. 

"Will you two stop talking, and start fingering?" He replied in a soft voice.

"Sorry, Sidney, I was sent on a mission by Hawkeye to figure out Chuck's accent," B.J. patted Charles' shoulder.

"Don't call me 'Chuck,'" Charles spat.

"Trombones! Shut your yappers!"


	5. When Tenors Stand Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo
> 
> so my school work has been hitting hard, from working on an autobiography to juggling magnet high school auditions, I had little time to write, and jazz band is adding up songs and dates that leave me little time to even do homework, much less play the new game, Steamworld Heist I got, mainly because Steam Powered Giraffe did music covers for the bar situations and-
> 
> i'm kinda swamped right now.

Max always showed up second to rehearsals, followed shortly by another.

He would arrive long before the rehearsal started, at 8:00; three hours before the usual rehearsal, mainly because his parents and other family was constantly busy in his house, which means sleeping in over the summer was not a thing.

Since he woke up so early, and usually gets banished from his house from causing a ruckus, or from wearing a dress or stockings in front of Great Uncle Sammoa, and ends up trudging across the city to the school.

But to his great surprise, Francis would always be there first, with a small piano that has a mouthpiece you blow into to make noise and makes an odd half-organ sound, practicing just inside the building on a bench.

He would tap the door lightly, Francis would let him in, they would play a quick rif of piano/guitar solos before the first tenor would arrive- Ginger.

Ginger would enter next and keep the undertones going, with her tenor sax, providing a nice low-octive meddle for the arrangement. 

Usually, the three would play together just like that, for about an hour, before Radar showed up to add drums, and they jammed as a bigger band with rhythm behind it. 

The group of four would never explain how they came so early, or why, but they always were, and they would always find some new improv blues to play, until Dr. Potter showed up, and so work in his office.

Max could tell he was pretending not to listen but secretly was- he could tell by the gleam in his eye whenever he would come out from his alcove when all the band members had came, ready to start a day.

Today was the final day of the summer band practice, school starting in two weeks. There was supposed to be a big performance, where all band, orchestra, choir, and jazz bands would show what they learned over the summer, presenting to parents their hours of effort.

Max had arrived at the same time, but took time with Francis to help set up things for all the bands- rows of seats and instruments pushed in the front part of the cafeteria for the orchestra and bands, choir chairs stacked in the back, and jazz band sigils behind the first line of sax seats in the stage, along with other seats and rhythm section instruments. 

Lines of seats facing out to see all of the three meddles, and a group of seats off to the side held for parent seating and where players would wait for their turn to go up.

Radar, Ginger, and Dr. Potter pitched in when they finally joined them, and finished around when the first few trumpets started to trickle though the band hall doors.

Other members from different bands entered as well, finding their way to their band halls, for their final hour of practice before parent scrutiny.

When Max, Francis, Radar and Ginger made it back in time, everyone had entered, well, mostly everyone.

Max, Francis and Radar sat in rhythm section, but Ginger sat alone in the sax section. The other three saxophone players were gone.

And they never did show up.

And they sounded great without them.

Max covered up any solo holes with a solo of his own, a guitar improv he could do for days, Ginger rocked it, not only as the only sax, but as a Barry sax nonetheless. Holes were filled just in the nick of time by alert trumpets and trombones, and no punches connected.

"Well, I am proud to say, this is the band Chicago asked for," Dr. Potter said gleefully after the performance. "You all did fantastic!"

All of the band seemed to glow from the praise.

After the performance, almost everyone stayed around to help. Some people had to leave early, the most prominent being the stuck-up trombone Charles, stating he had better things to do then _"Push around bongos," _

"They're _Cóngãs _you dimwit!" Max retaliated, as he groveled out the door. He had the sudden want to pick up the heavy drum and bass it over his head.

Francis nudged him a little with the side of the keyboard they were rolling down the halls.

"Forget him, let him lose moments he'll wish he'd have later," He said with a soft smile with just a little smirk at the end of it.

Max sighed, but continued pushing.


	6. When Trumpets Step Down From Chairs

Hawkeye looked up at the school. The same damn school he had gone to for two years before. The same school that was filled with bullies and hatred and victims. He hated MacArthur. 

He sighed, knowing there was no more time to wait and stepped inside.

Hawkeye walked silently though the hallways- they were empty. He was late, as usual. The few stragglers fumbled with lockers- commonly Freshmen- as he went up step after step to the top of the school, the very last floor before rooftop. The science wing.

Casually, he opened the door and scanned the room. No B.J. No anybody. That was to be expected- he was one of five juniors in jazz, and jazz was the only place he had friends. Unknowing eyes rested on him. Faced that looked slightly familiar from sharing two years of Hell with him stared back. Some with disgust, others with surprise, many with just the warm hazy stare of being back at school and sleep deprived.

The teacher barely said anything, just for a name (he knew to tread lightly and simply say Ben) before marking an obvious late on attendance. He doesn't care, and, in his mind, never will. Attendance isn't on top of his to do list.

A boring 45 minute presentation about the teacher that Hawkeye forgot all about passed through in what felt like two hours. The bell still rang all too soon.

Hawkeye wasn't an idiot. He knew how to talk his way out of a situation, as charismatic as he is. Nonetheless, there are a few people who still find him as a disgrace. What for? Well, for liking both genders of course. He mainly leans towards girls, too, but that doesn't stop people from calling him a faggot as he walked the stairway to Heaven. He got it better than most people bullied, he will admit. There wasn't one main attacker, he wasn't getting beaten up, et cetera. A big reason for that was his charisma and overall handsomeness and humour he radiates. He's seen all sorts of people beaten up for race, creed, over all look, sexuality, and personality. He should be counting his lucky stars to not have to come home with blood on his sleeve.

Hawkeye sighed, at last, looking up at the golden gate of Heaven. He had reached the band hall, for jazz second period. He didn't remember making his feet walk the same route to the same place he's gone since freshman, but here he was. _Must have gotten lost in my thoughts._

He opened the door and stepped into the large alcove, walking down the declining steps from the entrance blocked for student entry. The law was never enforced by Henry nor Dr. Potter, so Hawkeye stepped in. He was the last one in- to be expected for coming from science.

He unpacked his trumpet and music with a grin and stood on the black chairs with the tall stand in front of him. The spray painted MAC BAND logo on it was bleeding out from the borders of the stencil, as usual. He covered it with his folder.

* * *

"Hey, how's the hay?" B.J. said to him packing up after the rehearsal. Dr. Potter wasted no time with introduction presentations, and his chops felt blown out. He shouldn't have tried to take the El Viento solo.

"Oh, great, everyone loves me in the hallways, pass me my water bottle will you?" Hawkeye absent mindedly packed his trumpet into his case and slit it comfortably into the newer, larger lockers of the updated bookcase-esc setup. 

"What's that mean?" He replied, sliding his trombone in next to his trumpet and locking his white slated bars with a common black lock.

"Ah, nothin'," Hawkeye locked his locker and walked back inside the band hall- the bell still hadn't rung yet and he had nothing to do. B.J. followed in pursuit.

Since all of the first section was putting away handheld instrument, Hawkeye went over to rhythm section to mingle. 

"Hey, Radar, how's the brass band?" Hawkeye stopped in front of the drummer, who was squatting on the ground, collecting his music.

He flinched from the sudden greeting.

"Uh, hey," he replied, staring up from the ground at the already tall two teens, before scrambling to get his music together and standing up.

"What do you have first period, history like me?" B.J. said, a random starter to the start of the year.

"Uhh-" Radar looked like he was about to answer, but Hawkeye cut him off.

"Hey, you're nose is bleeding, and looks all red," Hawkeye commented, reaching out slightly, if just a hand movement.

Radar pulled back. "I-It is?" He wiped his nose quickly with his sleeve, getting rid of the small drop of blood, leaving a light smear that was there before the wipe, as if other drops were wiped away before.

He stated at it for a moment before hastily commenting "I-I have P.E. first, I, uh.. fell," his eyes glazed guiltily to the right away from the two's eyes.

Hawkeye and B.J. both looked at each other for a moment of _We both know the truth here _before giving him a quick pat on the back goodbye and turning away, presumably to talk to someone else. The someone else ended up being Max. 

They weren't really looking for someone to really talk to, just needed an outing to murmur about how whoever was pushing Radar's nose into walls was going to get a dead rat in their bed tonight, but they ended up landing in front of a guitarist, air guitaring in a pink dress.

Hawkeye was a Junior and Max was a Sophomore, so they both knew each other well, having knowing each other for a year. They both knew Max could handle himself well in a fight or when attacked verbally. That was another thing him and Hawkeye shared- the uses of the world queer and such. 

The song he was slightly riffing was most definitely foreign, but nothing Hawk hadn't heard before. It was the same half-playing riff he did right before the bare minimum of time to pack up his guitar and get to his next class.

"Hey, cutie, you got anything tonight? Maybe you can help me out with the first round of suicide homework then play doctor," Hawkeye quipped, as Max turned to him, pausing his playing.

"Sorry, not into guys, check next spring," Max replied, checking the wall clock and starting to pack up.

"Ah, I see you like women. That's a bit odd of a women to like a fellow women," B.J. added, but obvious humour was implied. 

"Not a lady either, smart-alek," He marched off away from them to put up his guitar, and the two left him be, matching out of the band hall the way they had entered- through the NO EXIT sign above the door.

"What do you have next, I have P.E." 

"Hey, me too!" Hawkeye looked up from B.J.'s response.

"Wait, really?" He said, overly exited to have B.J. in more than one class with him.

"Yeah, P.E. then forensic science," He replied, walking down the hallway with him.

"Ah, I got math after-"

"Hey, that your boyfriend, pretty boy?" Another faceless cry from the hallways. The teen who yelled it looked unfamiliar to him in any way, and Hawk really didn't need this right now.

"Sure, we can take turns- I get him Monday through Friday, you get the weekend," Hawk pushed him aside and walked swiftly closer to the gym. For a moment, B.J. had lagged behind staring back at the teen, but Hawkeye grabbed his arm and pulled him to go faster.

"Hey, what was that all about?" B.J. looked back at Hawk from looking back at the other guy, seemingly unfazed with the arm pulling.

"You know how half of this school is," Hawk just pushed the comment aside as if it were brown vegetables on a plate, and obviously didn't want to eat them.

"I don't, actually," B.J. had stopped in front of the boy's locker room, the stench of body odor radiating from the inside made Hawk's head hurt. It was hard to remember that B.J. was new- he had merged in so well with the rest of the band that he didn't seem like a stranger to anyone.

"Jerks! They're all big jerks with too many Lays on their shoulders!" Hawkeye gestured a little angrily, but just sighed it off and pushed into the room, leaving B.J. to follow only after a short pause of confusion.

When he stepped inside, he wasn't surprised by the amount of people who turned away quickly to hide their half-naked bodies from him, as if a glimpse at them could mean utter destruction. Hawkeye just sighed and went to his usual locker, one of the only things that never had and never will change in his school life, other than the relentless feeling of being an outsider.

He changed quickly and stepped out onto the rotting gym floor. B.J. was still inside- it figured. He tried to get in and out of the locker room as fast as possible.

The coach did a quick head count. Other people he knew were also with him in the class- since it was a mixed gendered class with all different grades, he was "lucky" enough to get Hot Lips in the class. _She'll be like a second coach for crying out loud._

Other people were there, too- Francis and Kellye and.. Radar.

Of course he was in the same P.E. class with him. There was no denying that he wasn't the one who gave himself the bloody nose.

The coach was always rather laid-back, and simply ordered them to go off and play basketball outside. 

B.J. had caught up with Hawk by now, and had gathered with the other four jazz band members just outside of the court, watching over-achieving players try to dunk the basket.

Margaret mainly looked as sullen as usual, but the other three already looked tired. There was no doubt that the other two had also gained some form of abuse already.

"Hey, Radar, I thought you had P.E. first period," Hawk said nonchalantly, like it was no big deal he had lied.

Radar just sighed and looked at his feet. He knew that Hawkeye knew.

"Hey, it happens to everyone. And if it doesn't happen to someone then they do it," B.J. said respectively, and Radar just nodded.

"What are you there taking about?" Margaret butted in. If anyone was a prime example of the said rule, it was Hot Lips. She was brutal and mean to everyone underneath her (which, to her, is everyone younger or in a lower grade than her) and was most definitely not bullied.

Although there are times where she can be comforting, those scenarios are rather rare.

"Ol' Radar here got a sock to the nose this morning, That's what," Hawk replied, with a look that obviously said _piss off._

The group on the court ran over to the sidelines, and someone threw the ball into Francis' hands.

"You weirdos are next, " the random stranger slapped the back of Francis' back hard in a _Go get 'em _fashion, but much harder than needed, making an _Oof! _exclaim from him. He stumbled forward slightly, which prompted the rest of the team to move into the court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably important to note that since this is set in 2000, there's still not a lot of bullying laws in place yet, so there's a lot of it. Especially in Texas.


	7. When Low Brass Bleeds Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time, sorry.
> 
> EXTRA ADD ON- Charles i now sub thee Asexual

The game went as you could have expected from a bunch of music kids. There were some height advantages, for him and Hawk at least, and Margaret tried her absolute hardest as the go-getter she is, but the other team was shooting bullets against them. Not to mention a good many of them took the height advantage as a height disadvantage, doing everything in their power to trip him. Considering her was the most dexterous on his feet (until it came to dancing), he fell quite a lot.

_This place really does double as Hell._ B.J. got up and brushed himself off, noticing his now bleeding knees from the concrete hitting him. _Just what I get for considering shorts._

He looked around and found his team had stepped out of the court by now. Quickly, he hurried over, leaving the team still in to snicker all they pleased.

"Well, that went as well as it could have," Francis said with a line of sincerity to it B.J. thought had no right being there. He was banged up as well, and so was the rest of the team. They all say panting for a moment, then the group of them started to walk towards the gym entrance, and B.J. and Radar stumbled to keep up. 

They walked back into the school, and went to the sink area right before the two doors separating the genders of bathroom. Everyone started grabbing hand papers immediately, setting them and washing up scraped elbows. B.J. and Radar stared at them for a moment. 

"Since this constantly happens, we have a routine where we clean up after a game," Hawkeye explained to the two confused teens. "So grab some brown paper and clean your knees for God's sake, B.J!" Aziraphale

Hawkeye seemed to exclaim that more than necessary when he looked at his knees, so B.J. looked too. So did everyone else. Radar winced.

"Oh," Was all B.J. could muster when he saw his dripping legs. _That's not good._

Hawkeye took charge when it was obvious B.J. was just staring at his knees looking like a fool, and pulled him by the arm to the sink. He propped his left leg up first and let Hawk clean it, then the right. It felt a little odd at first, especially when the other four stared at them, but when they just moved on and started to help clean each other, B.J. couldn't help the feeling of wholesomness resonating in his heart. 

Our of seemingly nowhere, Francis pulled a box of bandaids out of his carg o shorts pocket. Bandaids were passed around. Many were used on his knees, many used on others elbows and knees. Hawkeye even managed to get one over Radar's nose bridge despite his complaining, which he said made him look more tough to sully him down. The box was near empty by the end.

"Don't worry, I brought back-ups," Francis said, putting the now slightly crumpled box back into his pocket. B.J's heart broke a little at the realisation of how many bandaids they went through in a day. Francis was one of the first few people he made friends with when he came here, and he knew he didn't have the best life in school of out, but he kept going with a shy smile.

They stood around for a moment. There was still a lot of time left-about half an hour before the bell. 

"How do you guys go through this every day?" B.J. said absent mindedly. He stated at the trophy-covered shelves bordering the walls of the inside gym hallway.

"Welcome to Texas schools, kid. You've got a long way to go," Hawkeye said, resting a hand on his shoulder. He tried to not lean into the touch.

"I don't see what's so wrong. Sure, you get bruised up a little in P.E, but it's not that bad," Margaret said, looking up at the two. Radar snorted slightly to the right of her, and she turned on him. _"What's so funny?" _She hissed.

Radar froze. Stuttered for a few beats. Looked down at his shoes, and scuffed the marble, and proceeded to shut his yapper.

"What Radar means is that you're one of the privileged. You don't get tripped out of the court," Hawkeye said, taking his hand off B.J's shoulder. He really wanted it back.

"You're practically the only one in the whole of jazz that doesn't get that," His tone held an edge that made B.J.feel guilty of something he didn't do. From Margaret's startled face, he could tell she felt the same way. 

They say in uneasy silence for the rest of the period, something B.J. wasn't used to with Hawk. Something was wrong. Something more than usual at least. B.J. didn't.know how to help, though, and just stayed silent, afraid to break the ice. God, what was he doing here? He knew nothing about these people or how they lived, and acts like he knows after one game of basketball? B.J. didn't know anything, just as much as Margaret didn't.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. He saw Hawkeye more times, but he didn't seem in a talking mood, and B.J. respected that. He wasn't in a talking mood entirely himself either.

The final bell rang, and jazz band was about to begin._ It's about time._


End file.
